


Things Get Damaged

by bexacaust



Series: Precious and Fragile Things [1]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, M/M, questionable medical procedures, self-destructive behaviors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-25
Updated: 2016-11-22
Packaged: 2018-06-10 17:54:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 10,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6967198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bexacaust/pseuds/bexacaust
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If || God || has a master plan<br/>That only || He || understands<br/>I hope it’s your eyes || He’s || seeing through</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Things Get Damaged

“Let me take the blame.”, Drift had said, hands on Rodimus’s desk. His servos curled against the engraved face, an incomplete map and a half-bored doodle. Rodimus looked tired, so tired, and Drift pressed onward.

Rodimus shook his head, “Drift, it wasn’t just you, it was all of us, we all agreed with Prowl to keep that… that THING on board. I can’t let you take the fall, not alone, it wouldn’t be right I-”

The door hissed open.

Magnus looked up, and felt his spark sink when he saw Perceptor with cold, vicious optics, rifle still held in his terrified grasp.

“Drift, with your reputation, you wouldn’t last a day in open space. You’d be shot down the second your signal was captured.”, he said quietly.

“So what, we ship Rodimus, THE CAPTAIN, out?!”

“That would be idiotic, and disasterous for crew morale.”

“Oh, then Magnus? Yes throw an Enforcer out there, watch him be eaten alive!!”

“Or…”, said Perceptor quietly, “You find a better scapegoat. One who has previously dealt with O-Overlord, one who assisted in his first defeat. Someone who remembers Garrus 9.”

Rodimus and Drift looked at him like he had grown a second head, “Like who?!”, they intoned in unison.

“Perceptor.”, said Magnus quietly, “Are you offering to take the fall?”

“Do you truly think I could abide walking these halls, knowing an old nightmare once destroyed them?”, was the soft answer, “Tell the crew it was a Wrecker mission, via Prowl, to deliver Overlord to an appropriate execution site. One off planet, where no interference would be had. I will then fill in the blanks, and take my leave. Have a shuttle ready.”

“Percy, Percy this is SUICIDE. At least with Deadlock’s reputation I can squeak by on the fear of Con memory alone, but a Wrecker-”

“A Wrecker such as myself will be able to do that with far less Autobot interference.”, said Perceptor flatly, “And there will be no risk of imprisonment. The bounties on my helm had no ‘Dead OR Alive’ clause. There will be no option.”

“Perceptor, are you sure?”, said Rodimus in shock. Hearing the quiet scientist admit to such a mission, being a scapegoat notwithstanding, was a shock to his processor.

“Yes.”

Magnus nodded, “Very well. I will make the announcement. Pack your things… and may Primus have mercy upon you out there.”

“Primus abandoned me an eon ago. I found better gods to worship.”

And with that, Perceptor left.

Drift… went berserk.

He flung himself at Magnus with a howl, digging claws into blue armor, “ARE YOU FRAGGING OUT OF YOUR PROCESSOR?! HE’S GOING TO DIE, AS IN PERMANENTLY, NO COMING BACK THIS TIME! THERE WILL BE NO STASIS CHAMBER, NO REBUILD, NOTHING!”

“There are casualties in war, Drift.”, said Magnus gently, “And a willing volunteer is worth a hundred forced souls.”

“VOLUNTEER?! THIS IS A SACRIFICE!”

“Then a sacrifice he will be, for the good of us all.”, snapped Magnus, “That’s all the Wreckers have ever BEEN Drift! DO YOU THINK I ENJOY THIS?! I REMEMBER GARRUS NINE, I REMEMBER WHAT IT DID TO HIM!”

Magnus’s larger hands grabbed Drift’s upper arms, squeezing until the metal whined a complaint, “I WAS THERE WHEN YOU HAD GALLIVANTED OFF LONG BEFORE, I WATCHED HIM SUFFER WITH THAT DISGUSTING BIOMECHANICAL BASTARD’S WORDS FOR CYCLES UPON CYCLES BEFORE I LEFT HIS UNIT. DON’T YOU COME AT ME WITH THIS SUDDEN PROTECTIVENESS WHEN **YOU** ABANDONED HIM JUST LIKE THE DEAD GOD OUR PEOPLE CLING TO LIKE A BROKEN LIFELINE!”

He shoved Drift away, let him sprawl backwards upon the floor and stare up at the vindictive Enforcer, “Now… Go say your goodbyes. For once.”

Drift snarled low, before scrambling to his feet and tearing out of the room; barely missing the edge of the door as it opened almost too slow.

Perceptor was in his quarters, packing with the quick efficiency he always had. He heard the click of his doorlock, and looked up to see Drift in the doorway, finials crooked and optics damp.

“P-Percy, don’t do this, come on-”

“No. It is my turn to leave, Drift. You and Rodimus are needed here.”, sighed the sniper, “Do make sure Brainstorm doesn’t blow anything up, would you?”

“Will you come back?”

“I don’t know. After what is about to happen, I doubt I will ever be welcome in these ranks again. Not an unfamiliar scenario, but also not one I wish to repeat.”, said Perceptor, a wry smile on his face, “No combiners to one shot anymore to earn my place.”

“Percy, please, don’t leave.”, pleaded Drift as he walked in, letting the door close, “Don’t be like me.”

“We always emulate the ones we worship.”

Drift froze.

Perceptor stopped his packing, turning to Drift. A hand, a vague tremble to it, reached out, cupped a white cheek and stroked a thumb over the smooth metal, “If this will keep you safe, keep you alive and some semblance of level in your processor… Then I will do it. You do not deserve loneliness, Drift.”

“Percy…”

“I will be alright. I won’t change my comm frequency. And… if I can, I will do my best to check up on all of you… assuming I won’t be shot down immediately.”

Drift covered Perceptor’s hand with his own, letting the Wrecker coax him closer to hold him.

And for the first time since Wing’s passing, Drift let himself weep. He wept even as Perceptor drew back enough to kiss him; he mourned even as they fell onto the berth and sent personal effects scattering across the floor and he grieved even as Perceptor lit up his sensornet in all the best ways.

And, in a mirror image of lives previous, Drift slept through a final kiss goodbye; he didn’t stir as the final things were packed away and handed off to Rodimus at the door, He made no sound when Perceptor looked back to him one last time before exiting his habsuite.

But somewhere in Drift’s dreams, something broke in two and faded to dust.

And then Perceptor stood in the shuttlebay, beside Rodimus. He had been cuffed, and he looked out over the gathered mechs with no shame; only a icy hardness to his expression.

He stepped forward.

“Prowl approached me with a classified mission, to remove and dispose of Overlord the only way the Wreckers knew how. Execution. I agreed, as neither Magnus nor Rodimus are my actual commanding officer. I was not expecting the mnemosurgery to extend past evidence gathering; none of us could have predicted Overlord would have risen from his stasis to do what he did.”

“As SIC of the Lost Light and Enforcer of the Tyrest Accord; I hereby deem you, Perceptor, guilty of crimes against your fellow Cybertronians. Uncounted charges of murder, torture, and cruelties in the eyes of Primus and planet due to your negligence. Do you challenge any of these charges?”

“I do not.”

“As such, you are hereby stripped of your rank and brand and thus banished from this ship and all friendly Autobot outposts.”

“I accept.”

The cuffs removed, and Rodimus turned away.

Magnus reached out to remove the brand, and was shoved aside… by Brainstorm. Hot-optic’d Brainstorm, vicious and fiery.

“YOU ABSOLUTE BASTARD ON HIGH!”, snarled the jet, “YOU PUT US ALL IN DANGER, YOU PUT DRIFT IN CRITICAL CONDITION! ALL FOR THAT IDIOT TACHEAD?!”

“Wreckers answer to Prowl. That is simply how it has always been.”, said Perceptor in a deadpan.

And Brainstorm swung a fist, and the sound of the reticule cracking seemed to echo. Perceptor spat to the side, the liquid tinged pink from a split lipplate.

“Then, as your fellow scientist of Kimia, **I’LL** be taking your brand ** _MYSELF!_** ”

The shearing sound of metal, the shriek of a gouge, and a clatter.

The Autobot brand lay to the side, paint cracked where the metal had folded.

Magnus pulled Brainstorm away.

“Your shuttle is loaded. Leave, Perceptor… And may Primus, at least, show you mercy. If you are caught on radar within six miles of our ship-”

_-because ten miles will put you out of Drift’s comm range-_

“ -you will be shot down immediately and without mercy. Godspeed.”

Perceptor nodded, turning on one heel. He stepped down, adjusted the rifle slung over his back.

The crowd erupted, jeers and threats howled out. Decimations of his name and life were yelled to him.

He heard the whistle of something thrown. Shedding his scientist facade, a pistol was in hand and fired-

The twisted hunk of what remained of a wrench clanged upon the floor. Perceptor let his icy smile show, and the crowd took a step back.

“Next dumb hunk of slag tosses anything, and I drop you.”, he snapped, holstering the pistol once again and his long stride carrying him to the waiting shuttle. The now quiet crowd watched as the hatch closed behind him- as the engines fired.

“PERCY, DON’T GO!”

Drift ran, oh he ran to the shuttlebay to see the tail end of the craft carrying Perceptor leave in a roar of engines and a fire of thrusters. He skidded to a stop-

And that’s when he felt it. That clench in his spark, like it was falling into a singularity of desperate mourning. His knees felt weak as he watched the glow of the shuttle fading, fading, fading…

Ratchet caught him. Ratchet caught him once again, hauled him to unsteady feet.

“C’mon kid, time t’go, let’s go.”, murmured the medic, “It’s over, he’s gone, it’s done now.”

Drift keened.

The crowd shivered at the sound, like a beast in suffering, and watched as Drift was pulled away from the scene.

The Lost Light drifted onward; standing truer to its name than ever before.

And Perceptor tapped the console to set the autopilot. He rose from the pilot’s seat to retreat into the back of the ship, where his rifle lay upon a table. He sat heavily, and began his drills.

His chestplate stung where the brand had been torn off.


	2. Light For You, A Lamp

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I loved  
> And I Loved  
> And I |L|o|s|t| You.

Perceptor sat in the pilot’s chair, bullet between his dentae and a pede against the console.

Old revolver-esque weapon in his hand, and he loaded it with rounds made illegal a golden age ago. He hummed as he worked, the dust of the day still coating his frame like the grit of a tomb’s doorway as the beeps and trills of the shuttle’s functions sang on into what he knew as night.

Scuffed servos took the bullet he held between his dentae and loaded it into the firearm, the final shot for a rude backup weapon. Click.

He held it, aiming at nothing and hearing the whirr of his optic scope as it adjusted its sighting. He sighed, setting it aside and putting his pede to the floor. He glanced over the console, hand reaching out to tap control tabs and set the autocourse to active.

He didn’t know where he was going. All he knew, is he had to go away.

He checked his comms; still in range.

He fought the urge, valiantly he fought it, but he couldn’t. He wouldn’t do what had been done to him, he wouldn’t be that kind of mech.

The ping of comms going active.

_“Per-cy?”_

“Hello, Drift.”

_“Come back, please, **PLEASE** just, come back, I’ll fix it-”_

“It can’t be fixed, Drift.”, he whispered, closing his optic. His scope whirred into an idle mode, “This is the hand we’ve been dealt, and there’s no mulligans. No matter what Kup used to say.”

Drift gave a thick laugh.

_“Rrrratch… sedated me. A bit.”_

“I feared he would.”

_“Come home.”_

“I’ve no home to return to, not anymore.”

_“Percy…”_

“What matters is you’re safe, Drift: you, and Hot Rod- apologies, Rodimus… And Magnus. Brainstorm. All of you. That’s all I care about. I am of no consequence.”

_“Percy, please-”_

“Drift, before I’m out of range, I wanted to tell you something.”

_“What?”_

“I love you, Drift.”, whispered the sniper, hearing the shuddered vent from the other side, “I’ve loved you for a very long time… And I’m so sorry I have to lose you once again.”

_“I love you too.”_

“Remember me fondly, should I be unable to return.”

_“I will.”_

“..Goodbye, Drift.”

Drift sounded small, and then static filled the commline and it pinged again with a lost signal. Perceptor, with optics forward, shut down the autopiloting tech and gripped the controls. Before he could look back on his dallying, before he could ponder the meaning of why he had cut his engines to slow his exit from comm-range, he gunned it.

Like a comet about to go out, the shuttle sped off with thrusters at maximum.

When you pull G’s, no one can see you mourn.

The Lost Light echoed with another broken howl once again as Drift curled on the med-berth, as the machines hooked to his once-dozy existence went haywire.

Ratchet burst in, and set his jaw like a monolithic King as First-Aid held Drift’s shoulders to the berth’s surface and upped the dosage.

The cry echoed, to Rodimus where he sat in Swerve’s and drowned his sorrows and remembered hearing the old addage, “Wreckers care for their own.” once upon a moonlight adventure and let his head thud onto the bar as another failure left a tally in his spark.

It reached Magnus, where he stood near an empty Captain’s seat and looked away from stars that seemed so suddenly like a host of prying eyes, witnessing his betrayal of yet another of his mechs.

It reached Brainstorm, sitting in a dim lab and staring a hole in the wall as a crumpled Autobrand sat on the counter, matte in the starlight that barely pierced the gloom.

And deep in a now single-occupant habsuite, a Greatsword’s gem flickered in answer; gleaming now as though a spark gave it life.

There was work to be done. But not yet, not yet.

But soon.


	3. Flip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm gonna go back to a face;No more mask  
> I was in full bloom, until I met you  
> I'm gonna shake my fetters; I'm breakin' loose.

_Two decacycles into his journey, something snapped in him._

_And somewhere between his fear burning away the first time his ship was boarded and the last bullet fired in between a pair of terrified optics._

_Something fell into place…_

Somewhere between seeing the healing scrapes where his brand used to be and feeling the weight of a pistol in his hand; he shattered along a magma vent. He flipped his berth, slammed his fist into the mirror in the small washrack station, sent the top contents of his small desk scattering. He dented walls, he howled to the emptiness of space-

He raged, for hours unending, against god and country and mission. 

His spark stuttered. It guttered, and he fell to his knees.

His temperature skyrocketed and his pulse fell and he crawled to the damages wall to lean back against it at the panic tried to set in.

‘And here you sit, broken-sparked YET AGAIN.’, hissed his processor, ‘What now, hm? Going to scream? Scream for yet ANOTHER savior?’

He gritted his dentae, shuttering his optics and counting his vents.

‘There’s no one here, Perceptor. There never WAS. You were a THING, a tool, someone to use.’

He unlatched his chestplate, feeling heat roil out from his wild spark.

‘Just like back then; do you remember it? They left you, abandoned you; at least this time you asked them to first.’

“Stop.”, he hissed into the air.

‘No. There is no stopping. It’s time to admit the truth, Perceptor. You sold your soul the minute Prowl appealed to your nonexistent ego. You beat and battered yourself down; you became **WEAK** to make others feel strong.’

He opened his optics, swallowing hard.

‘They have CAST YOU ASIDE **YET AGAIN.** ’, snarled that voice in his processor, digging its mental claws in,  **‘STOP SACRIFICING YOURSELF!’**

“I’m not-”

‘YOU ARE! YOU ALWAYS **HAVE BEEN!** FOR EONS, YOU BURNED YOURSELF AT BOTH ENDS, AND FOR **WHAT?!** EVEN OPTIMUS HAS LEFT WITH NOTHING MORE THAN A **GOODBYE!’**

“I-”

‘Now here you sit, scared of something you’ve faced a thousand times TALKING TO YOURSELF.’

“SHUT UP!”, he roared, forgoing his vocabulary, he pushed himself forward, onto his hands and knees, and wheezed.

‘You have been here at Death’s door a thousand, thousand times Perceptor. You rebuilt yourself once, on the outside. Now to fix the internal damages you’ve left to fester. Stand up, Wrecker.’

“I-I can’t, spark attacks-”

‘STAND **UP.** PERCEPTOR. STAND UP **NOW!’**

And… he did. He pushed himself to his feet, spark pulsing erratically as his chestplate creaked form its open position.

‘To the berth, Perceptor, the medkit is under it; remember?’

He nodded, taking wobbling steps to the berth and sitting heavily. His hands moved automatically, rifling through the kit after he pulled it from underneath the platform. 

‘Eons of everyone else’s expectations are killing you, Perceptor. Get rid of them. Now. Shed them like old plating.”

He raised his chestplate, reaching into his sparkchamber and feeling the old, swollen scars. Scars he had let heal naturally, scars that swole and pulsed with every stressor.

‘Get rid of it.’

A click. He had his scientific microset, tools in his very servotips. The scars were swelling and filling the chamber; and his middlefinger was now tipped with a small scalpel. He stared forward, and pressed down. The metallic skin gave way, and he set to work. He screamed when the pain grew furious, he sliced and tugged, pressed and patched. Soon, his entire midsection was slick and his limbs shook.

‘Fortify and secure. Like you were taught.’

He froze, confused, until his new pseudoconscience directed him.

‘Purification by fire.’

The small welding torch; for securing large plating patches. He set his jaw and grabbed it.

It spat and hissed and soon glowed like hell’s own doorway.

A deep vent, and once again-

The hiss of burning metal; a howl of anguish. He burned away the scars, he burned away the swelling pockets beneath them, he burned and he burned and he pressed and he molded.

And then, the pain seemed to grow distant. His spark ceased its deadly whirling and tumbling; his HUD pinged as his temperature regulated.

‘You see? You SEE what you can do when you stop being a doormat?’

Perceptor’s internal systems began scanning; coming back clean, clean, clean, blissfully clean as he washed his wounds. As he closed his chestplate and sat in the silence, as the mini-torch clicked into sleep.

‘You are far, far more than you realize. That brand was a shackle; those mechs were a herd and they wanted you to be their loyal sheep. Just like Prowl. Just like Kup, and Springer. There is no one here now, Perceptor.’

He looked around his shuttle, whispering through blackened space, a cigarette burn on existence.

‘There is just you, and you are FREE.’

He nodded, mouthing the word as the latch clicked.

‘They wanted to keep you a scientist, and you became a **LEGEND.** And even after earning a chapter in history they looked down upon you. What do you need a lab for anymore?’

He set his mouth in a grim, relaxed line, looking at the tools still left upon his desk. Assorted things; including a small mallet and a flathead screwdriver.

‘They **lost** the right to your spark the minute they left you with it exposed. Become what you **needed** all those eons ago Perceptor. You never need to open your spark again; they never **deserved** your dedication anyway.’

He stood, gripping the welding torch.

“No more games of pretend, then.”, he murmured, walking to the desk, “No more ‘Boring Old Percy’ anymore. No more patching everyone else’s mistakes; no more being backup.”

‘Never again. They’ve taken enough. Close the door, Perceptor. Lock them out.’

Perceptor set the welding torch on the desk, and picked up the small mallet; a tiny thing, meant to knock pins into place in the engines and mechanics of the shuttle. He picked up the screwdriver; used to pry old bolts or perform minor repairs.

He set the tip of the driver against the latch.

“No one gets to see what they never worked for; no one has the right to what they never had to repair. No one gets to see what they wanted broken.”

A thousand faces; Rodimus, Magnus, Drift, Ratchet, Top Spin, Springer, Kup-

**CLANG!**

He slammed on the butt of the screwdriver with the mallet. He drew back, and struck, and he struck and he struck again, optic cold and scope whirring as though it focused on a target.

The latch screamed as it sheared away, clattering to the floor and he picked up the welding torch, kicking it on. The gouged steel, the plated flesh was heated and smoothed, heated and smoothed until it was nothing but a round silver spot on a sea of red.

Tools now set aside, spark humming happily behind his permanently sealed chestplate, Perceptor began to piece his shuttle back together. His rifle was slung near the door of the quarters, things were gathered and placed where they needed to be.

And the shuttle shook.

Perceptor froze, looking to the cracked door as the overhead lighting hummed dim, and went out. He heard the scuff of pedes, and laughter. The whirr of minor transformations, and he rested a hand on one of the pistols at his thighs. 

With every nearing step to his door, more and more, he felt the scientist in him die. He felt anger, hot and thick like rising magma melting his natural cold-mask away to show the bitter and vicious mech beneath. His reticule glowed brilliantly; and he heard the door shoved open.

A Decepticon badge, cracked and scuffed and worn; like the Cause, like their rhetoric.

“What d’we have here! A lone li’l Autobot, with an awful nice ship.”

They raised their weapon and continued to speak, “We’ll be taking thi-”

His sentence would be forever unfinished as a bullet cracked into his helm between his optics; as the back of his helm burst like overripe fruit.

“Actually, what we have here is a Wrecker.”, said Perceptor, his tone rough from his earlier agony, “A very. **Angry.** Wrecker.”

The two following their leader suddenly felt their backstruts freeze; like cold oil dripped down as Death salivated over his newest offerings.

“And you mechs are about to have the worst day of your **filthy** little lives…”

Minutes later, Perceptor’s shuttle diseganged from the old Con scouter; three bodies were booted out the airlock to drift in mangled heaps in a weightless abstract art formation.

Perceptor sat at the controls, a smear of energon on his cheekplates and a rust-stick between his lipplates as he gnawed on it. The rumble of the engines surrounded him, comforting and beast-like as he set off in a new direction.

Coordinates, pulled from a babbling victim before his spark was snuffed.

Perceptor was no longer the quiet scientist. Now, he was the coalition of four million years of anger. At himself, at the ones he called friends, at the regime that cast him aside when he was no longer “necessary”.

He was a coagulation of bitterness, he was a bubble in a vein of a dying creature and it was time for him to stop playing games with himself.

The quiet mech had died long ago, bled out on the floor on Turmoil’s ship.

Space swallowed him up in a lover’s embrace; and he turned his signal onto broadcast. Let them come. Let them all come.

He was waiting.

**Wreck ‘n’ Rule.**


	4. Covert Operations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Remind me that we’ll always have each other  
> When everything else is gone.

Perceptor was gone, and the crew was feeling the surprising backlash….

No one felt it more than Drift.

He sat, alone, in Swerve’s. No one sat beside him- in fact, since Luna 1, most avoided him.

_“You don’t get to speak his name you glorified BUYMECH.”, he hissed, “I may come from the gutters, but you’re worth less than my CORPSE.”_

Drift shuttered his optics, willing himself not to remember seeing Lockdown again. Willing himself to not revisit the pangs in his spark.

_“Drift.”, Dai Atlas said softly as he laid a hand upon his shoulder, “I… am honored to fight beside so noble a Knight. He would have been proud of how far you have come. I was **wrong** about you.”_

Drift felt the glass break in his grip before he registered the shatter.

He opened his optics to see Swerve staring at him in terror.

He said nothing, merely rose from his seat to leave. Swerve watched him, before he quietly (for him) spoke.

“Hey, Drift.”

“….Yes.”

“”…You miss him, don’t you? Perceptor.”

“I do.”

“Yeah… Hey, you know why I decided to join a quest where I’m pretty much useless without liqour around?”

“Why?

“Because sometimes, you gotta chase what you want if you really want to have it.”, said Swerve, “I wanna be a hero, somehow. I wanna be remembered. So… I chased an idea. And now, here I am! I’ve kind of seen a legendary moon. My friends are all heroes, and I’m on my way to being one.”

“What does this have to do with _me?_ ”

“You want to be someone’s someone. And… you found him. Now? Now you gotta chase him down, Drift. Think on it.”

Drift went quiet, staring in shock at the tiny bartender as he began mopping up glass shards and the dregs of a an attempt to drown sorrows. He blinked, tilting his helm, a still-freshly-patched finial quirking slightly out.

Swerve grinned, “Go do your meditating- but, like, think on what I said, yeah?”

Drift nodded, and left the bar.

He walked the halls, aimless and wandering once again. He stared at the welds in the walls, the old remnants of battle- with the Legislators, with Overlord. And he nearly walked facefirst into the door of the medibay.

The Great Sword at his back seemed to hum, goading him into entering.

The door hissed open, and Ratchet stood before him. Old Ratchet, Wise Ratchet, Ratchet the Hatchet- the most vindictive fountain of good sense known to Cybertroniankind…

“You’re going to leave, aren’t you.”, sighed Ratchet softly, “I can see it in your optics, kid.”

“Ratch, I-”

“I know, Drift. I know.”, said Ratchet softly, “I… I hate myself, a bit, for believing that slag about a Wrecker assignment. I just got through with Brainstorm- he had a panic attack.”

“Why?”

“He was the one who took his brand. Tore if off his chest, remember? There’s been a steady stream, mechs saying they feel nauseous or sick or paranoid…”

“Guilt.”

“Mhm. Guilt can’t be cured with medical grade. It’s one of those things you gotta self-medicate.”

“Is it guilt, then, that I’m feeling?”

“No.”

Drift sighed, “Then tell me, Ratchet, why the hell I’m debating gallivanting off into space to find a scientist who barely even remembers me.”

“Because he told you he _loved you_ before he left. _And you said it back.”_

Drift froze, unable to meet Ratchet’s optics. He clenched his servos into fists, hanging his helm.

“I know… I know I disappointed you. With what I became. And I know you probably think that what I’m about to do is fragging STUPID and POINTLESS but…”

Ratchet nodded, placing his hands on Drift’s shoulders.

“…Ratchet, I want him to come home.”

“Then bring him home. For all of us, Drift.”, Ratchet said, “Help me cure the Lost Light- I can’t think of anyone better.”

Drift looked up, to see First Aid slinking up behind Ratchet, optics twinkling.

“Drift! I was wondering when you’d show. I have medical supplies already set aside- Ratchet told me you’re really good at getting messed up.”

For the first time since Perceptor’s shuttle vanished into space’s emptiness… Drift smiled.

Ratchet commed Brainstorm and Swerve; telling them to meet him in the shuttlebay. He looked to Drift after his commline closed, and smiled with some kind of sad pride in his optics that faded as quickly as it came.

“Say your goodbyes, Drift. Make ‘em count. The universe feels nothin’ for us, you know that better than most. So make them count.”

Drift nodded, turning and speeding down the hallway. He dodged the few mechs who were out and about, skidding to a silent stop in front of Rodimus’s door.

He lifted his hand, about type in the lock-code, when his comms pinged.

_::It’s open, Drift.::_

Drift swallowed hard, tapping the keypad over the green button that activated the door, and it slid open. He stepped in to the habsuite, helm hanging.

“You’re gonna find him, right?”

He looked up, to see Rodimus.

“..Yeah. I am.”

“And you’ll bring him back, right? That’s the only way I’ll be kind of okay with this, y’know.”

“I will. Somehow. Even if I gotta drag him back. I’ve dragged him before.”

“Yeah… Yeah, you’ve saved him before, you can do it again.”, said Rodimus absently. The brightly colored captain turned, walking up to Drift; the swordsmech braced, ready for whatever came-

Rodimus pulled him into a fierce hug, burying his face against Drift’s neck.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Drift. I should’ve never agreed to this. I’m sorry.”

Drift was quiet, before his arms hesitantly went around his close friend. They stood in silence, holding each other as though they were about to fly apart at the seams before Drift spoke again.

“I forgive you.”

“You _shouldn’t._ ”

“But I _do._ And so will _he._ ”

Rodimus nodded against Drift, before he pulled back.

“Then… let’s send you off on a retrieval mission, yeah?”

“Yeah.”, said Drift, a watery smile on his face, “Ratch had Brainstorm and Swerve head to the shuttlebay, you too. Might as well send me off in some kinda style.”

“Race you.”

“…You’re on.”

It was neck and neck the whole way there- the pair of them snorting and laughing through the tears that were building in their optics, that leaked over Rodimus’s face. They slid into the shuttlebay, tripping over each other and landing in a less-than-graceful heap in front of the spacecraft Drift would call home until he found Perceptor.

“Really?”, sighed Ratchet.

“Well YEAH.”

Brainstorm watched quietly as Drift got to his pedes before marching up to him- throat cabling bobbing as he stood before Drift.

“Uhm.”

“Uh, yes?”

Brainstorm hung his helm, “…When you find him-”

_Not if, never if. Don’t imagine the worst this time._

“When you find him… tell him I’m… sorry. Please.”

“…I will.”

“And give him this back; if he wants it anymore.”

Burnished and smooth, chips filled in and repainted, Perceptor’s autobrand was offered to Drift. The swordsmech looked at it… and smiled. He curled Brainstorm’s servos around it.

“No, Brainstorm. You can give it back to him. When I bring him home.”

Brainstorm looked to Drift, something like relief in his optics, “…Alright. I will. He may punch my lights out, but in all honesty I REALLY kinda deserve it.”

“Pft, **YOU** deserve it? I’ll be _offended_ if he doesn’t shoot me in the aft at **_LEAST_** once for what I did.”, said Rodimus flatly.

The group snorted, sharing a last moment of laughter before First Aid piped up.

“The shuttle’s loaded and ready, Drift! All set for Operation: Homecoming!”

Drift grinned.

“And I hid a heavy duty set of cuffs, y’know. In case you need to restrain him for any reason~!”

Drift’s face went immediately hot. Rodimus spluttered, choking before he dropped to his knees and howled in laughter. Ratchet leaned against the shuttle and Brainstorm fell backwards onto his aft as they all cackled at Drift’s askew finials and stammered attempts at speaking.

First Aid’s faceplate hid most of his expression, but Drift knew the younger medic was grinning at him.

Drift huffed, crossing his arms, “ANYWAY.”

Ratchet wiped coolant from under his optics as he steadied himself, “Anyway. You’re all set kid… Good luck. And I hope we’ll see you both soon.”

“You will.”, Drift promised, “You definitely will.”

“And you both better come back in one damn piece, y’hear me?!”

Drift’s smile faded into a smirk, “We’ll try, old mech. No guarantees, I mean… you know the old motto, don’t you?”

“Wreck’n’Rule all y’want, but you get wrecked and it’s gonna be Wrench’n’Pain when you get home, got it?”

Drift snorted, nodding his agreement as Ratchet’s ever-present frown was back on the medic’s face. Ratchet rolled his optics, stepping over to Drift and pulling him into a one-armed hug, tight against a broad chestplate.

“Be _safe._ And good luck.”

“Thank you.”, aid Drift softly as the hug faded. He looked over the faces gathered to see him off, a small group. But… his friends, all the same.

He turned to the shuttle, jogging up the ramp and vanishing within it. 

His friends watched as lights flickered on, as the engines rumbled and hummed and the ramp drew itself up.

And, from the command room, Magnus saluted in soft silence as he saw Drift’s shuttle blast away into the star-scattered blackness of space.

Drift sat in the pilot’s seat, checking over the controls before he flipped on the scanner to find Perceptor’s signal-

Bididididididi DEET. _DEET._ _**DEET.**_

Loud and clear, from the west.

Drift looked forward, his faceplates set and his spark thudding behind his chestplate.

And he kicked the thrusters up to maximum, and welcomed the G’s he pulled as he rocketed away.


	5. Larynx

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He’s starting to choke  
> It’s been so long since he spoke

Perceptor packed his weapons up once again, silently nodding as he was thanked by Outpost Head- what was this one’s designation?

They blended together after too long. Swingline, he thinks, maybe this one was Swingline.

“On behalf of myself, Swingline- as well as those under my command, we thank you again.”

A curt nod.

Perceptor shouldered his rifle, grabbed the case for his assorted Extra Gear, and set off for his shuttle. He lost count of the cycles it had been, since he left. His plating had been paled by the suns of outposts freed- scuffed by whirring bullets and hand-to-hand encounters he almost didn’t want to win.

Through it all, he hadn’t given his name.

Some had recognized him, but were easily silenced with a look, and a shake of his head.

They called him Sharpshooter. They called him Sightline. He had a name for every planetoid and settlement he had visited- for every high-profile target turned in.

Once again settled in the pilot’s seat, the rumble of the engines and thruster startups, he cleared his throat.

Silence.

His optic flickered in alarm, and he did it again. No sound greeted him.

He put a hand to his throat, his HUD showing the scan progress. The results made his spark sink in its chamber.

[Vocoder Corrosion: **98%** ]

[Vocoder Functionality: **0.0%** ]

He tried to speak, he tried to cry out. Not even static greeted him, anymore.

‘I like hearing you, Percy. Don’t feel bad about chatting around me, okay?’

Drift’s voice hummed in his processor, and his vents twitched in a hiccup. He set autopilot as his shuttle rose into the sky, past the horizon, and he stumbled to the small berthroom in the back, dragging his weaponry with him.

The silence seemed to muffle the sound of metal over metal and he felt his spark throb painfully.

With his voice gone, so was his last link to the world. His last chance to interact, to rebuild his life now that he had no one but himself… His last link with the one he left behind.

He sat on his berth, with his helm in his hands, and felt himself slip- just a little, just enough.

Coolant dripped from his good optic as he sat in silence, vents twitching with irregular bursts of expelled air as he mourned with no sound- as he longed with no soundtrack to it, unable to even cry.

His new pseudoconscience was even silent now, nothing in his processor but the long distant sound of memory- of the way Drift’s laugh blended with his own, of their casual conversations.

Of the soft loving phrases exchanged late in the evening, before they fell into recharge.

[Vocoder Corrosion: **100%** ]

**{Vocoder Shutdown Protocol Activated}**


	6. Discovery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And nothing else matters now, you're not here  
> So where are you? I've been calling you, I'm missing you

It had been _months._

Months of bouncing from dock to dock- outpost to settlement and back again, chasing that flashing signal on the radar. Chasing and chasing- a hunter with his prey always in its peripheral.

And then; one day, the movement stopped.

The signal went still and flashing, nestled within the embrace of a far binary system with two minor export/import outposts.

Drift circled for several days, waiting for the inevitable movement that never came. Perceptor has landed officially, it looked like- Drift immediately sent a request for permission to dock.

He was answered with an affirmative almost three days later- and the signal still had not moved.

And Drift’s spark was lighter than it had been in months. His hands shook as they gripped the steering. He counted down the very nanokiliks until he docked his shuttle, bounding off with a clatter of ruffled plating and excitement.

And Drift ran.

He tore trough barely populated trails, optics scanning each ship he saw.

But with each passing vessel, his spark began to sink. None of them were the right ones, none of them were correct. As evening fell, the sky dimmed to a lush green like a forest canopy, he returned to his own ship and went immediately to the console, fearing that Perceptor had left without Drift knowing.

The signal flashed once, twice- and went a deathly red. At this distance, it’s placement on the available map was clearer, and to Drift’s horror; it wasn’t at the docks, no. It was in a wide expanse of land, several miles east of his position. The red gleam of an S.O.S lit Drift’s expression; his thin lipplates, his wide optics.

He snatched up his weapons, and barreled out of the door. 

Leaning against the console, the gem of the Greatsword glowed ominously- as though the stone could know fear.

Drift fell into his altmode form the second he was clear of outpost boundaries. His engine screamed like a banshee as he barreled through dust and growth; as his processor still whirled like his spark and he closed in on the fading signal.

For the first time in eons, Drift prayed. He prayed, and this time he knew he meant it, deep down somewhere still raw and bleeding. He was within yards of the shuttle, and the sky was dark and haunting in an almost ethereal way- the way a circle of mushroom caps became as the sun set like the final flutter of eyelids.

As the night sky’s color rolled through like a thunderstorm.

And Drift nearly collided with the shuttle in the dark, detransforming and trying to remain steady on his pedes as his optics glowed in the darkness.

“No...”, he breathed, taking steps backward.

It hadn’t been that long. It had only been a week since the signal had landed.

Drift swallowed hard.

The shuttle’s entrance, scorched and marred by blaster fire. One hinge shot to pieces, shards of steel scattered like petals at a funeral. Pedeprints in the dust and loam around him- at least five, maybe seven. Drift shook his helm, stumbling closer and reaching out as though he could pull down the image of the gaping maw of the ship- tear it apart like a bad stage curtain to reveal the mech he’d been searching for.

“Percy?”, he whispered.

The hum of the wind roaming through the gaps in the outer hull where plating looked to have been removed.

Drift’s steps were heavy, his optics bright, as he began the funeral procession into the ship. Flashes in his processor; the daydreams that had kept him going all these months of finding the sniper, of hearing his voice, seeing him roll his optics in that affectionately exasperated way.

“Percy?”, he breathed into the shadows, emergency running lights barely illuminating his way.

It had only been a week.

There were perfectly circular burns in the walls- blaster fire. Deep gouges in groups of three and four- clawmarks. Drift had left them behind several times.

Messy steel-crowned wounds from explosive ammunition. Drift’s intake went dry as he found the main console.

Flashing slowly, beginning to power down, the signal went out with a whisper.

Something crackled beneath Drift’s shifting pede, and he stepped back as he looked down.

Crosshairs scuffed, the glass finish scraped away and the blue tint chipped off of one corner- _Perceptor’s reticule._

His helm shaking in denial, Drift raised a hand to the side of his helm, his comms activating.

“Aut-autobot to base.”, he wheezed, the air hissing from his vents as he sank to his knees like a dying apostle, “I need a crew. I need a crew now.”

::Two mechs incoming, both armed. What are your findings?::

“I found the shuttle I was looking for. It’s... It’s been raided. Signs of a skirmish.”

Silence, then, the comms activated again.

::Drift, sir?::

“Yes?”

::The last signal feedback from that area was four days _before_ you docked. Decepticon in origin.::

Drift went cold.

::Inbound mechs should be making contact in fifteen kliks. I’m... I’m sorry sir.::

Drift nodded, not realizing it wouldn’t be seen. His hand shaking, it reached down to pluck the reticule from the floor, to curl his servos around it as his optics shuttered.

“Sir?”

He turned his helm enough to speak over a shoulder, “Yes.”

“On our way in, we found signs of a Con landing site. Discarded fuel containers, old cubes... and these. I recognized them from uh...”

Drift turned, and felt his spark grow hard at what was being shown. Two white pistols, scuffs of black and burns at the front of the barrels.

Pistols usually housed in compartments recessed into a scientist’s thigh plating.

“...You recognized them from Declassified, didn’t you.”

“I... I did. Yes. You were looking for Perceptor, weren’t you.”

“I still am.”, said Drift icily, getting to his pedes.

“Sir, I don’t think he’s-”

“Alive? Then you underestimate him.”, snapped Drift, “Search this shuttle high and low. Pry up the floorplating if you have to. I don’t care if we dismantle this damn ship, find any evidence of what Cons did this- and you report it directly to me. Hand over the coords of that landing site.”

“Sir what-”

“Like I said. I’d like to know exactly _**WHO**_ did this.”, he snarled, plating flaring and finials straight back like a alley cat in a spotlight, “And then I’m gonna pay ‘em a little visit.”

“Sir that’s suicide! The site showed at least half a full squadron of Decepticons, they’d-”

“They’ll die is what they’ll do. I’ve faced worse odds.”, he growled, voice rumbling like the oncoming storm, “Get MOVING mech!”

Two shaky salutes. His comms pinged with a message containing coordinates, and he watched as the pistols were set aside as the pair scurried into the shadow places to carry out their orders.

Drift gripped tightly to the reticule a moment before tucking it into his subspace and taking heavy steps to the pistols.

A moment later, he was exiting the shuttle, machinery whirring as he transformed and sped off towards the landing site.

The pistols went with him- safe in his subspace next to a dulled and scuffed reticule.

The remains of a distant hope; one that was slowly grinding down into limestone dust and gravesoil.


	7. Lost And Found

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No matter where you go-  
> I will find you.

Drift had pursued the ship’s signal- dogged and determined, with a sharp slant to his finials that matched the keen brightness of his optics.

With every refueling stop, with every ration pickup, he gained a little more ground; with every pause his progress grew faster.

Perceptor’s pistols sat on Drift’s berth- the recharge station unused in weeks. His hands were steady even as his temperament wavered and sloshed back and forth like boiling toxic waste.

He flexed his servos, watching the flashing signal on his screen as it touched down at a heavy-traffic import/export colony- and he drew closer, ever closer. Like a circling vulture over weakening prey, he circled and he circled.

His spark seemed to whirl faster in its casing as the signal remained steady yet again. He knew it wouldn’t be long until they touched down again.

The landing site he had scoured showed signs not of ration usage- but disposal. The last of their stores had gone bad. They had dumped them after consuming what was safe to take into their systems, and gone after better and fresher fuel and supplies.

There had been a corpse, looked to be a crewmate. All it had taken was a run of the designation etched into dead plating to figure out where they had come from.

The ship was known as _Tempus Fugit_. It was no warship, as the previous witnesses had thought- nor was it a whole squadron. It was a scouting group, no more than seven, and down one at that.

The signal stayed.

When Drift touched down, he made sure to head straight for the ship. He searched it, high and low, after slipping in through a weakened point in the main hull and clambering through machinery like a snake through the canopies of far off jungles.

No sign of Perceptor. Nothing. Nothing left but his scuffed and battered rifle.

Drift felt his spark clench when he found that. There was only one reason Perceptor would part with his favored weapon, and it made red tinge the edges of Drift’s vision.

And so, he left the ship like a stormcloud, like the miasma that took the first sons of an entire race, and he faded into the crowds.

He crept up and down alleyways, peering into bar after bar and inn after inn with no luck, no sign.

And then his comms beeped.

_::What are you doing here.::_ , flashed on his HUD.

_::Who are you?! How did you get this frequency-::_

_::Unimportant. You should leave, Drift. You aren’t safe.::_

_::Percy?::_

_::Go back to the Lost Light, where you belong.::_

_::Percy, Percy where are you?!::_

_::Unimportant. Go home, Drift. Go home, where you’re safe.::_

Drift stood straight, and against all judgement, bolted into the open with a yell of , “PERCEPTOR?!”

The result was immediate. Weapons were drawn, old battlecries sounded. Drift shoved and slashed his through the gathering crowd, howling Perceptor’s designation. He saw flickers and flashes of red, he swore he saw the scientist’s flat expression-

And then something crashed into the back of his helm like a napalm blast, and everything was dark.

The hit was hard, scrambling his processor enough that he went limp almost immediately. His systems were sluggish after the momentary blackout, and he surfaced enough t know he was being carried.

He invented, and remembered the scent of oil and polish and then silence.

He awoke again, his processor pounding as his optics creaked open to a blurry image. A dark helm, broad shoulders, and with a wince Drift moved his hand. He reached, slow and lethargic, and the shimmering mirage looked up to him.

Drift’s hand cupped their cheek, and ran a thumb over sharp features.

“Percy.”

_::Rest. You shouldn’t have come here.::_

“Don’t leave, don’t...”

_::I will be gone by morning. This is will all seem a dream, love. Rest, and leave for home in the morning.::_

With a animalistic whine, Drift shook his helm- a terrible idea, if the lights that exploded behind his optics were anything to go by.

And everything was dark.

When Drift awoke, it was morning. The room, empty. A cube sat upon the berthside table, and Drift snatched it up in shaking hands. He went to crack the top open, to see it had already been rolled back for him. The cube was still warm.

Drift dipped a servo into it, lapping at the digit.

Sweet, sweet, almost sickly sweet. No one knew Drift’s weakness for sweets.

No one, except for Percptor.

Drift downed the fuel, throwing the door open and charging out. His pedes pounded down the hallways, sending him careening out into near-radioactive sunlight...

To a bustling street, and a shuttle-filled sky.

Chestplates heaving, his optics darted to and fro before looking up.

He watched the ships in their flight, watched the lines of airtraffic like fuel through living lines- and wondered.

He wondered if one of them was the ship he sought.


	8. The Waiting Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And yet, he stared at nothing, nothing and even more of NOTHING.

 

 

 

_Drift stared at the shuttle console and felt his optics growing sore form the intensity. He was searching for a signal, some sign that Perceptor was still in range of him._

_And yet, he stared at nothing, nothing and even more of **NOTHING.**_ _  
_

Venting deeply and flexing clawed servos to prevent his fist from slamming through the console and resulting in too many repairs to handle at the moment. He leaned back in the pilot’s seat, contemplating his options- all.. two of them.

Option one: He could turn around, do as the sniper had said, and return to the Lost Light empty-handed with nothing but a minor concussion and blurry glimpse of the mech he had been searching for.

Option Two: He could continue on- somehow. Find some way to hunt down Perceptor or his ship’s signal and continue his chase across dark and empty space in the desperate hope that he could convince the mech to return with him.

Drift frowned. It… wasn’t looking good. He tapped his lipplates with a clawed servo, growling low in his chest like a supervillian in thought. The _Tempus Fugit_ was a scouter ship, capable of basic medical care and comfortably housing a full squadron.

And _registered._

Drift paused.

The _Tempus Fugit_ was a registered ship, logged and capable of being acknowledge in databanks for import and export dock stations. He leaned forward, tapping the touchscreen of the console and pulling up list after list after list- searching for the name of the ship that Perceptor was trapped upon.

He had no doubt the Wrecker had been abducted now, why else would Perceptor have been so adamant that Drift not follow him?

A ping, and Drift grinned.

A ship, with a matching name but a scrambled signal, had docked three systems over for refueling and supplies. Drift downloaded the information to his processor and rose from his seat. It was time to look up a few old comrades and call in a few older favors.

Opening up lists of long-silent contacts, scanning for current coordinates- an unfortunately familiar scenario. With a gathering of six names and a fading day, he set out from his shuttle back into the bustle of the settlement he currently docked at. He passed faces that grew more and more haggard with each one that seemed to pass in a soft-edged blur of color and unknown stories; he watched the buildings seem to break down before his optics as he crossed the line from polite society to impolite necessity.

His aim was a bar; a kind of establishment he hadn’t frequented since his days beneath a different name. Luckily, or perhaps _UNLUCKILY_ , the scuffs and scrapes on his plating from being attacked dimmed down the white paint and red badge.

He stood in front of a door that had seen its fair share of enforcers kicks and pinned notices of broken laws and vented slowly.

_‘This doesn’t mean you are dishonest. This doesn’t mean you’re going back to what you used to be.’_ , he told himself, _'This just means that the path of least resistance still has a few potholes.’_

He pushed the door open, and predictably, the bar went silent. Glimmers of violet and red and gold latched onto him from every corner and he felt his spark clench behind his chestplate.

“I’m not here for anyone but myself.”, he said calmly.

“Thigh guards like that, I’m hopin’ you’re here for a conjux, sweetspark!”

His finials tilted back at the number of leers suddenly pointed in his direction. He stood a little straighter, his claws clicked softly as he rested a hand on the hilt of a sword at his hip, “….C'mon now, we’re all gentlemechs here. Show a little _propriety._ ”

“Oh I’ll show you gentlemech alright- just come sway that frame my way!”

Drift wished he had a meter for his rising temper instead of just the rising sparkrate. A heavy-armored mech sashayed up to him, getting far too close far, FAR too fast and hooking an arm around Drift’s narrow waist.

“I know ya just got here, darlin’ but let’s boost on outta here yeah?”

“Get those slimy servos off me before I break them.”, Drift said flatly, vocmod clicking off audibly, “Or go a bit farther and just take the damn arm.”

“…What did you just say to me you two shanix gli-”

He never finished his sentence. It’s difficult to speak in any capacity when a fist is doing its very best to plow through your faceplates via your mouth components. The offending mech choked, wheezed, and stumbled back; catching the wall for support as Drift took a few more steps into the building. The swordsmech looked slowly around the gathered Cybertronians, and very softly spoke once again.

“Anyone else want a hard lesson?”

Most turned, no longer willing to try and stare down angry blue optics or bared fangs.

Three were not so smart. They rose in a scraping of seats and a snarl of their fallen comrade’s name- peppered in threats and epithets as Drift felt every micrometer of his frame tense in readiness for a fight. He hated it, but deep down he missed little altercations like this.

The group made it six steps towards him before there was a barked order of, “Stand _**DOWN**_ you **IDIOTS.** ”

They froze, turning to look over their shoulders at the barkeep, who leaned over the counter.

“So, you’ve come moseying on back to us, huh?”

“Not a permanent arrangement, just calling in an old favor.”

“Oh?”, and optic ridges rose, “So my debt to Deadlock wasn’t quite paid off, hm?”

“I don’t use that name anymore- but the modicum of respect is nice.”, he said flatly, nonchalantly glancing around the bar again if only to see the suddenly cowering mechs and femmes avoid his gaze before those optics once more locked onto the slinger of drinks and vice, “I need you to find something for me. A ship.”

“And why should I?”

“Because you owe me. Because I still have terabytes of blackmail I could hand over to the Autobots- including your current location and the location of your family.”, said Drift in his growled deadpan, “Because selling your Amica and the protos they ran with when your conjunx died won’t weigh on my conscience any more than the space debris that bounces off the hull of my shuttle.”

He smiled, cold and vicious and edged in razors, “So it’s your call. Pay off your debts, or gain a few more that have no payment plans.”

The barkeep’s cocky grin had been fading as Drift spoke- fading, fading down into a scared and twitching line.

“…I see. Still ruthless as the day you were renamed.”

“Old habits die hard, friend. Now, shall we talk business?”

“…In the back. Away from prying eyes.”

“Excellent decision.”

Drift heard the whispers of rumor beginning behind him as he strode forward with the sureness of a mech who’d faced far worse than gunfire and war-smoke and vanished into the shadowy back room of the dead end bar.

He moved to perch on a counter, his expression disinterested in his environment as he waited for the Barkeep to serve the last few mechs at the counter before he too stepped into the realm of deals and information.

“So, what kind of ship are we talking about here?”

“Scouter, it looks like. Running name is _Tempus Fugit._ I found it once, but they scrambled their signal after ditching me. I can comm you the last known coordinates as well as docking information.”

“Uh huh. I’ll be honest, it would be better if you had the commline for one of the ship’s crew- its more direct and easier to trace; besides, it would be faster than decoding the signal in order for you to follow it. They no doubt know who you… were, and what you’re capable of? Who’s to say they wouldn’t dock their ship and hop another.”

“They would have done that far sooner if it really worried them. Trust me.”

“One more question, if I may?”

“…I guess. But make it quick.”

“Whatever did these poor sparks do to earn your… ire, so to speak.”

Drift’s expression darkened just a little, just enough to make the shadows recoil, “…They took something _very_ important to me. And I want it _back._ If there’s no more questions, then I’m comming you what I have so far and will be waiting at the bar for what you can get.”

The Barkeep’s HUD flickered and pinged with an attached file on a text comm, and he nodded slowly as Drift slid from the counter to his pedes.

“Make it quick.”

“Yes sir.”

Drift smiled without it reaching his optics and took his leave. He exited the backroom to find only silence and terrified staring as he bee-lined for the bar itself, taking a seat and drumming his claws on the finished surface.

And now, he played the waiting game.

* * *


	9. Parallel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If Heaven and Hell decide that they both are satisfied  
> Illuminate the no's on their vacancy signs  
> If there's no one beside you when your soul embarks  
> Then I'll follow you into the dark

_“I've done what I can.”_

_“That should be good enough.”_

_“Now. Are we-”_

_“You'll never see me again.”, said Drift simply, “I'll purge what I know of you from my databanks. All you'll be is a decidedly helpful bartender. One with a vague sense of familiarity. **Nothing more.** ”_

_“And my-”_

_“I don't know them. Don't know **of** them.”, continued Drift, “As far as I'm concerned... they don't **exist.** ” _

The Barkeep nodded, and Drift saved the text comm that was sent to him. He stood, silent, and turned towards the door. His steps were silent, no ominous rumbling like an oncoming storm now. Just the tired steps of an old soldier, carrying him out the door, and down empty streets painted in shades of hostility and abandonment.

Upon entering his shuttle and being assaulted by the pings and peeps of the console, he vented heavily. He shook his helm, letting the hatch close behind him as he walked to the pilot's seat and sat down like the past four million years were suddenly weighing on him like Atlas carrying the world.

The engines fired, and thrusters came online. He gripped the steering controls and felt the shuttle rise against the force of the sky and opened the text comm. His servos darted over the touchscreens, entering the information held within as the dock grew fainter and fainter like past sins washed away-

Faintly, on his scanner, a single dot began flashing with a kilometer measurement beneath. 

His demeanor brightened just a little, just a lot- and engines fired again as he rocketed into the grasp of space. He watched the wavering distance being eaten up as he traveled, and he pushed the engines just that much harder. As million-markers faded into the hundred thousands, into the thousands; he felt his plating flatten against his protoform in excitement. He was gaining, Primus bless him, he was gaining on Perceptor's prison-

And then, the signal slowed. And then, other markers appeared on the console.

And then, Perceptor's signal began to run. Terror infused Drift as he pushed the engines harder and harder, ignoring the dangers of such high speeds as he hissed prayers between his dentae. One pursuer dropped off the map.

Then two.

There were two left now, and the slipstreams were becoming visible. Perceptor's signal took a sharp slant over an unsettled planet, careening downwards as though shot. His pursuers followed- and so did Drift. The shuttle rattled through the atmosphere, showing blue meadows and orange-red lakes and Drift held on as all four ships fell to the ground like comets.

Drift watched as the ship containing Perceptor fired back at its hunters, hitting the left engines of one and blasting a hole in the top of the hull of another. Both ships were dead in the water now, whirling and twirling as they fell far too fast.

Perceptor's ship pulled up, hard; landing gear extending as it rumbled down to the surface behind the pursuant Decepticon vessels that crashed into the planet's surface like stray meteorites into forgotten tundras.

_::Do you EVER listen to me?::_ , snapped Perceptor over a sudden commline.

_::Not a chance Percy. Now land so I can get you off that damn ship before something BAD happens to you.::_

_::Wh- What? What do you mean, something BAD? This is MY ship!::_

_::I'm callin' scrap on that one. Land and prove it to me.::_

The ships landed with crashing thuds even as they touched down as gently as two shuttles could manage.

Drift barely gave himself time to shut down the engines before scrambling to the opening hatch, bouncing impatiently as it opened. He heard the low hum of Perceptor's idling ship as he all-but ran down the ramp- kicking up dust and the plant matter from the planet's surface.

He skidded to a halt in front of Perceptor's ship, his spark in his intake and his hands clenched into fists and shaking as he waited. The hatch slowly opened, showing dimly lit interior- and red plating.

Ducking down slightly as he walked down the extending ramp, Perceptor strode into the light, looking at Drift with a sighed vent... and a slow smile.

_::See? Completely fine.::_

“Why aren't you speaking?”, asked Drift immediately, easy and relaxed steps beginning to carry him to Perceptor, “There's new weldmarks on your chestplate too, what happened? Are you taking care of yourself?”

Perceptor shrugged, looking away from Drift.

_::My vocoder is... corroded. Don't mind the chestplate, its nothing severe anymore.::_

“Percy, please look at me.”, pleaded Drift, standing a frame's length away from the sniper, “Please. I've been looking high and low for you, trying to find you and bring you home- its over, Rodimus and I... we all came clean. You can come home, please- please, come home-”

Drift's optics flickered as Perceptor suddenly looked terrified, as the sniper on instinct opened his mouth to scream- but no sound came out.

And then, burning white-hot pain in Drift's chest that burned from his back to his front. Sounds suddenly tuned out as warnings pinged all over his HUD. He staggered as Perceptor pulled out a pistol and fired once, twice, past Drift's helm.

The swordsmech looked down, lifting a hand to the burning hole in his chestplate just off the center of his sparkchamber. He looked up to Perceptor, gave off a confused hiss of static, and dropped to his knees.

And then Perceptor was there, pulling him into his arms- comms flashed into Drift's processor, distorted and glitched.

And then... the world went dark.

_::Drift, no, don't leave me- not here, not when you've just found me!::_

And then, silence.

 

 

##  **_To Be Continued In: Things Get Broken_ **


End file.
